


Faking It

by wicked_little_thing



Series: Bane Of My Existence [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Because I love SPN, M/M, Mostly season 1 compliant, Supernatural References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wicked_little_thing/pseuds/wicked_little_thing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight, and Sherlock Holmes is exceptionally good at hiding in plain sight.</p><p>Well he has to be, considering what he really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faking It

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to point out any errors, leave feedback and concrit, favourite, etc! I would seriously appreciate it. :)  
> Also available on [FFN](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8956838/1/Faking-It).

His name isn't really Sherlock Holmes.

He's had many names over the years. But this one, he has to say, is definitely one of his best. It has a certain ring to it, and it's original. He likes original, and likes to stand out. You can't blame him really – he has always had quite the flair for the dramatic.

Why be normal and _boring_ , when you can be interesting, anyway?

That's beside the point though. The point is his name isn't really Sherlock Holmes, but that's the name he goes by – it's one of the many names he has gone by – because his true name holds power. _All_ true names hold power. If someone knew his true name, they would hold the power instead of him, and he really can't have that. On top of that, considering who he is, in the wrong hands this would be very dire.

Very dire indeed.

He has changed his face, changed country, changed his social status innumerable times, never staying one person too long. He's been many things – a soldier, a scientist, a philosopher, just to list a few – but has never, _never_ just settled on one profession. Or, in some cases, _lack_ of profession. _He_ has never changed though. His personality has always been very much the same throughout his existence. He's always been easily bored, always relished puzzles and challenges, always been aloof and cold because ordinary people are so stupid, so _dull_ and why bother with so many manners and morals and niceties? It's just really not in his nature to bother with such trivial things.

He's always been an addict too, but sometimes he resists the temptation because it provides a distraction in its own right. And any distraction is better than the build–up of screeching in his mind, the increasingly torturous, stabbing _pain_ that comes with the ennui. He's always had that problem too: occupy his mind and incredible intellect, or allow the madness to slowly sink in like black ink staining papyrus, like terrible sins tainting a soul. Even in the days _before_ , he could never sit quiet and still and do nothing; he has always needed to feed his intellect or else let it consume itself.

Now, however, he's totally apathetic to the feelings and the misfortunes that may befall mankind; diseases, tragedies, pain and torture. He _thrives_ on the misdoings of others. He's not a good person, and he knows this. Hell, he's not even a _person_ in the most basic sense to begin with. But he'll do just about anything to stave off the madness, the insanity that awaits him if he remains stationary, if he does nothing.

Although, all that could just be his melodramatic side talking again.

If he told you that he doesn't feel emotions the same way a regular human does, that he doesn't actually _care_ , it would not be an exaggeration. It would be as true as anything, and he rarely speaks the truth. Which is quite contrary, seeing as the puzzles he most enjoys are the ones which involve seeking the truth.

Sherlock Holmes, as he is known in his current lifetime, is quite contrary indeed.

–––

He meets John Watson by chance.

Helping out Mrs Hudson long ago had enabled him to strike a deal with her, quite easily. She was more than happy to assist after his last landlord kicked him out for the damage his experiments did to the walls and furniture and for the constant, unheeded complaints from the neighbours. He decided she didn't need to know the details of his banishment though.

But it wasn't _his_ fault his neighbouring busybodies couldn't put up with the violin. It helped him think, and if they didn't like it that was their problem.

The damage had been quite terrible though. Apparently it had been the final straw. He remembers the look on his landlord's face when he first saw the ... _explosive_ direction Sherlock had taken in his decorating.

He looks back on the memory fondly.

Regardless, he hadn't actually needed a flatmate, but had realised that having someone stay with him would make Mrs Hudson more amenable to his cause – make him seem more ... human. His plan was to find someone who would stay with him for a short while – long enough to instigate himself into 221B Baker Street so thoroughly that even when he did something that regular people found _irritating_ or even _dangerous_ Mrs Hudson would be too biased to kick him out. He hadn't intended on seeking out someone specifically, someone who would put up with his eccentricities well enough to want to stay for longer than three months.

Yet he meets John Watson by chance, and it happens anyway.

–––

It takes Sherlock a while to realise that he actually, genuinely likes John.

Which is embarrassing really, considering what he is and how sharp his intellect is.

John is different. He's far from what Sherlock expected. He's not particularly sinful, or vengeful, or anything supposedly Dark like that. In fact, Sherlock can see right through to John's soul and it's fairly good. _He_ is good. His existence is tainted with the typical deceptions of any adult human – lies and small unintentional betrayals, for example – but it doesn't touch his soul. His soul still shines bright and healthy and _good_.

Sherlock doesn't get John. He gets so close to edge, in fact he _has_ touched the Darkness, but it never seems to have tainted his soul.

Sherlock _knows_ John's different, but he doesn't understand _how_. John seems so ordinary but he's not and as much as Sherlock hates to admit that he doesn't understand something ... he doesn't understand John.

Like how John shot the cabbie for him. He doesn't understand _why_ John would do that. Why would he feel the need to protect Sherlock mere days after their first meeting? It doesn't make sense!

Sherlock should have him all figured out by now – he should know how he works and what makes him tick, his personality, his _soul_ to such an extent that John's every word, action and reaction should be more or less predictable. Just like with everyone else on the planet.

Except he does not, and they are not. Not all the time, anyway, but far, _far_ too often for his liking. It's disconcerting.

John baffles him, surprises him, intrigues him. It's as exhilarating as it is frustrating.

And as Sherlock spends more and more time with the elusive Dr. John Hamish Watson, drinking tea and running over rooftops and having domestics, it becomes clear quite quickly that the only predictable thing about John is that he _isn't_.

He's a constant variable.

A contradiction.

A puzzle.

–––

Sherlock does so love a puzzle.

–––

"You know, it would be nice if I wasn't the only one doing the chores around here," John says matter–of–factly as he enters the flat bearing dry–cleaned suits from their last case.

Sherlock sighs. He's lying on the couch, in his dressing gown, hands folded idly on his stomach, wallowing in ennui. John frowns at the sight of his human–cross–cat flatmate before disappearing into Sherlock's room to dump the consultant's half of the load.

"Perhaps. But more often than not I don't have time for such menial tasks. Too busy," Sherlock replies dully, waving and flapping one hand about as if to bat away John's irrelevant and tedious mentalities.

They've had this conversation before, but John's still holding out hope that Sherlock might, miraculously, decide to assist on occasion. But true to his stubborn nature, it really would be a miracle if that happened. Good thing John's just as headstrong – makes for interesting arguments.

Bickering seems to be some kind of warped secret indulgence for them both.

John comes back into the living room, his eyebrows raised. He nods at Sherlock's supine form, "Yeah, like you are right now. _Real_ busy."

Sherlock turns his head to look at him, eyes sharp with defiance, "Yes. Exactly. So good to see you're keeping up."

John smirks and shakes his head, chuckling at the sight of the grumpy, pouty detective. John thinks the man is just as exasperating as he is endearing. Sometimes he acts like a child and other times he seems ages old and there's something about the fact that John adores. It's like he deleted all and any emotional developments and maturity to make room for everything else. For more important things.

Well, to him, anyway.

John's not one for overindulging in self–pity, but in the dark corners of his mind are whispers, hissing, because these feelings of admiration or whatever this is? They can't be mutual. Sherlock doesn't _do_ friendships, especially not with someone like John. So what does Sherlock really think of him? Why hasn't he grown bored of him yet? Why hasn't and doesn't he scorn him like he does with almost every other living or non–living thing? A normal, boring, ex–Army doctor, yeah, big whoop. What's so great about him?

He doesn't get it.

He'll stay though, as long as Sherlock will have him. He hasn't known the man all that long, really, but he knows he'll stay as long as he can because this man is incredible. Amazing. Blindingly brilliant. He's singular in his personality, his intellect, his everything and John would probably be irrevocably infatuated already if he were gay, which he is most certainly not. But he has no qualms in complimenting someone who clearly doesn't get it often, and being around someone so fascinating, with such a complex, vast, erratic universe enables John to forget about his own demons.

Sherlock doesn't know any of that though (well apart from the not–gay bit). He doesn't know what John really thinks of him, even though John's hardly kept it a secret. Quite the opposite, in fact, so maybe Sherlock's being the obtuse one for once.

Sherlock's ice blue laser gaze narrows and intensifies at his clearly amused flatmate because, well. He wasn't expecting _that_ reaction at all. John's so open, so expressive and easy–to–read but at the same time, his mind – his inner workings – seems to be written in a code that Sherlock just can't crack, that he may never be able to crack. And wouldn't that be a wonder? It's ever so fascinating and infuriating at the same time. Why does John laugh at Sherlock's irritability? It doesn't make any _sense_. He should be irate right back, and he shouldn't compliment Sherlock, and he shouldn't want to stay and he shouldn't _do_ anything that he _does_.

It's like his actions and reactions don't follow the rest of the world's pattern. Like they're on a level all on their own. Like that compact body and bewildering mind and gentle–fierce soul hold mysteries so unprecedented that it's becoming less of a theory or hypothesis and more of a definite conclusion that Sherlock might never, ever be able to crack anything about John. Ever.

He stares at the man, who is still chuckling. Almost no time has passed and yet it still feels like an eternity. For Sherlock time is fluid; it's too fast or it's too slow, it's hardly ever just … cruising. And right now as Sherlock tries and fails to analyse his friend – _friend_ , he's never had a proper one of them before – like he has so many times before this instance, eternities pass, _eternities_ , and still he can't make heads or tails of this simple–complex, stupid–smart, doctor–soldier that is John Watson.

Sherlock should just give him a title. Dub him the bloody King of Impossible Contradictions and be done with it.

But … he won't.

He doesn't think he'll ever be done with John Watson at this rate.

"I fail to see what you find so amusing, John. Do you dare mock me as I _suffer_?" Sherlock snaps shortly, scathingly.

John's eyes flash in genuine mischief, making them darken into a deeper yet just as unfathomable blue. "No, I would never! I'm disappointed, Sherlock. What little faith you have in me."

Sherlock just stares at this creature before him in utter incomprehension.

John flashes him a grin before saying, "I'm popping down to Tesco's for a bit, grabbing a few things. I'll be back in an hour or so. Oh, and I'll get that ridiculously expensive honey you love so much."

He dashes upstairs to put his own half of the dry–cleaned clothes away before grabbing his wallet and keys and clomping downstairs again.

He turns to go down the seventeen steps that lead outside, but then doubles back and asks, "You up for Chinese tonight?"

Sherlock blinks.

"Yes, fine."

Sherlock's still staring at the spot John was standing many minutes after he's gone.

Since when has John noticed the kind of honey he eats?

–––

He thinks that being a consulting detective is excellently suited to him.

Well, it would have to be, considering he invented the job himself. But it is _truly_ perfect for him: the puzzles, the freedom of doing as he wishes, the power and the _running_.

He doesn't remember anything about Heaven as part of his everlasting punishment, but he's sure that _this_ , that living among the Creator's more favoured offspring, pretending to be one of them, amusing himself by messing with them, solving their little games and being with _John_ , is _so_ much better than the celestial planes he was cast from so long ago.

–––

Lucifer has always been more flexible concerning what his subjects can do. As long as they remain disloyal to the Light, demons can pretty much do what they damn well like under his rule.

Sherlock has always liked that part the best: the liberty to make his own choices. Certainly there are times when his Lord calls a few of his subjects to his side to do his bidding, but that doesn't happen too often anymore. Not since the War. He has lowly minions, not to mention the souls of the damned and the lesser demons to do his every bidding. If Lucifer is king, then the higher demons are his noblemen. They are all brothers, anyhow. Dark angels and archangels. Some are of the Fallen, like Sherlock. Others are just lesser ones that have been promoted for being truly wicked.

The humans have many names for what they are, but Sherlock thinks the classic 'demon' has a truly wicked ring to it.

The King of Hell isn't _good_. He isn't fair or just, not really. He has far too much emptiness in his soul, a great void that construes the absence of the Light or his Grace that he once had for that – just the same as the rest of the Fallen, the rest of the children of Darkness. But he does what he likes, and his subjects can do what they like. Most of the time, anyway.

They aren't expected to conform to any rules without question, like they'd had to in Heaven. Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven, as the mortals say.

There isn't any blind Faith or Love involved, such as when carrying out orders, because Lucifer always gives a straight answer when questioned. He explains himself. Sherlock thinks Lucifer earns a fair amount of points in his favour for that, even if you do get burnt to a crisp and much, _much_ worse if you disobey, even if his wishes are usually horrific and evil and a dozen other adjectives and turns of phrase.

And so what if Sherlock favours the mortal world to the fiery pits of Hell? There's a _reason_ Hell has such a terrible reputation, after all. It … does things to you. Terrible things. Even for a demon.

Sherlock's gotten so good at living amongst the humans and blending in that he'll never have to go back there. As long as he stays off the metaphorical infernal radar, he'll thrive.

No way is he ever going back.

Besides, there's much more fun to be had here on the surface.

Maybe there _is_ a reason these lovely, fragile little humans are so openly favoured by the Holy one.

–––

He knows that he doesn't feel like humans feel. He can't love, or feel joy, compassion, remorse. He can feel mild variations of disgust and fear and satiation. He's a master of vengeance and irritation. Fury and lust work too (but indulging in the latter two, as he found quite early on, gets tedious upon repetition).

He doesn't always follow the humans' rules of society and morals, but when he does it's usually just enough to not seem completely inhuman. He doesn't commit crimes because there's no _fun_ in committing them when he can get away with it. He knows because he's tried, and wasn't caught once – even after leaving obvious clues – and by hell was it dull. Ratting out the simpletons that did commit them – and not using any of his powers to do it – is _so_ much more satisfying, so much more challenging. He doesn't know why he hasn't thought of it before now. Being a consulting detective is _actually_ the best occupation he's chosen yet.

But no, he doesn't feel empathy or affection or the like. It's simply not how a demon works.

He knows this, so he doesn't know what he's feeling towards John Watson.

He likes him, sure. But he _likes_ black coffee, he _likes_ 'unsolvable' crimes, he _likes_ mould cultures.

It's not the same.

He likes John, but it's more than that. He just doesn't know _what._

He doesn't know what this fierce need to protect him from any kind of harm with everything he has is. He doesn't know what the little burst of warmth he gets in his chest when John smiles at him or laughs with him is. He doesn't know what the clenching in his stomach and the constriction in his throat he gets when John's in danger is.

He doesn't know why he wants John to be happy, but he does. He wants John to be the happiest human who has ever lived and will ever live, because he's so unique and wonderful and _John_.

It doesn't make any sense, because if Sherlock didn't know any better, he would say he is in love with John Watson. But demons don't love. Not like humans do. They get possessive and obsessive, but he knows they don't _love_. He's sure of it. The Fallen were stripped of their Light and any such 'good' emotions along with it a long time ago, and any other demons never had it to begin with so it's hardly a possibility.

So he doesn't know what this is.

He feels no shame in entertaining the fantasy though. He doesn't mind the idea of it. Perhaps he should, being on the Dark side and all, but he doesn't mind the idea at all.

Being in love with John Watson.

–––

Mycroft 'drops by' three months after Sherlock's moved into Baker Street with John.

Three months to the date.

Sherlock doesn't even need to deduce anything as he climbs the stairs to know that Mycroft sits in their living room, _their_ living room, stinking of self–righteous placidity.

John's out, thank fate. Probably on a date or at the clinic or the pub – it's not important. What's important is he's out – and has been for a while by the look of things – and not with Mycroft. Sherlock's willing to bet that the elder Holmes was disappointed by the fact.

Sherlock moves into the kitchen to check on that mould culture experiment he has going, not once glancing into the living room.

He doesn't have to wait long for Mycroft to join him. Sherlock continues to look into his microscope, and says, quite bluntly, "Go away."

Sherlock misses Mycroft's frown of faux hurt.

"Now, Sherlock, there's no need to be so aggressive. I simply dropped by to check on how you've settled into your new flat," his tone is condescending, patronizing, and like nails on a chalkboard to Sherlock's ears.

Sherlock clenches his jaw.

"You never just 'drop by' without ulterior motive, Mycroft," Sherlock lifts his curly–haired head and glares serrated daggers at his _brother_.

Mycroft curls his lips upwards unassumingly, but it's not a smile.

"Why must you always be so suspicious of me?" Mycroft examines the tip of his umbrella.

Sherlock hates that umbrella. It's ridiculous, the way he carries it around like it's some source of comfort. How a wooden stick with flaps can be a source of comfort to someone like _Mycroft_ is beyond Sherlock's considerable understanding.

"You know why," Sherlock answers dully.

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

"Oh come now, are we really going to get into another petty fight? And I had thought your little doctor friend would be a good influence on you."

Ah. So that's what this visit is really about.

"Leave him _alone_ , Mycroft. You know everything about him there is to know."

Mycroft's gaze sharpens at his younger sibling, "Do I? Because you seem to have taken quite an interest in him, and he in you, for no apparent reason! Maybe there is something more to our good doctor than I can see on record and take at face value? After all, he didn't want to take any bribe at all when I first offered, and he had barely known you forty–eight hours."

Sherlock almost snarls. John isn't _their_ doctor, John is _his_ doctor.

"Perhaps chivalry isn't dead," Sherlock's tone lilts, drenched in sarcasm.

"You're prevaricating, Sherlock."

Sherlock simply snorts in disdain.

Mycroft sighs, looking toward the ceiling.

"I can see we'll only end up going around in circles. I should have known you'd already staked your claim, with your keeping him around for three months and showing no sign of ending the arrangement," Mycroft sighed again, as if a heavy burden had been dumped onto his shoulders.

Sherlock doesn't answer, only focuses on the mould. If he could just find what he needs he'd be able to prove they had the wrong man …

"It _is_ nice to see you finally reaching out to someone though. I am happy for you, Sherlock. But do try not to get too attached. It never ends well," Mycroft actually looks genuinely nostalgic, and Sherlock feels a flicker of doubt.

It's gone just as quick, because he reasons with himself. _Obviously_ Mycroft's just being his usual manipulative self. Probably wants John to himself, because demons don't get 'too attached'. They don't get sentimental about such things as humans full stop.

Mycroft has but that's hardly relevant, considering.

"Have fun while it lasts, little brother."

And with those parting words and a whoosh of invisible feathers, he's gone.

–––

Mycroft is an angel.

Naturally, Mycroft Holmes isn't really his name, either.

He's not exactly the best angel, though. Probably one of the closest to the edge, where Light meets Dark, good meets evil. He's ever so fond of the grey area. Frequents it often, really.

Sherlock puts up with him because he has to. Mycroft is convinced that if he pushes Sherlock's buttons right, he can somehow get him back on the side of the Holy. This isn't uncommon, among the ranks of the angels – trying to persuade those demons who aren't inherently malevolent and sadistic into regaining their Light – but usually, they're so _boring_ about it. Do it, because He still loves you and will forgive you, it's never too late for redemption, yada yada yada. _Dull_. But Mycroft is different. He manipulates, except it's so subtle you can hardly tell. He blackmails, but without ever harming anyone. His tricks are dirty, but it's all in the name of the greater good. It's entertaining, how he does his job.

They're not _really_ brothers, but it's what's closest to the truth. They were cut from the same cloth, so to speak. They're different from the other angels and demons, so they put up with each other.

Sherlock thinks having an archenemy makes life more interesting anyhow, and Mycroft is perfect for the role.

He has always visited Sherlock often over the millennia – sometimes posing as an old friend, an acquaintance, a colleague, and once on a more memorable occasion, his lover – monologuing about Sherlock's faults and how he should make more of an effort to fix them and how he worries about his reckless behaviour.

Sherlock has always thought he's a right bastard.

That's pretty much the sum of their relationship.

–––

Sherlock doesn't actually need to eat, or drink, or even sleep that often for that matter. But he does it all anyway – force of habit – because he needs to maintain the façade that he's human.

Demons and angels live on certain energies. Not calories, but more like the energy around them: kind of like the energy of the multiverse. Sort of. It involves a complex set of laws that even winged beings, who generally consider themselves a superior species to humans, find hard to wrap their heads around. Regardless, they absorb this energy automatically, like humans breathe in air, and filter out what they don't need. Angels need Dark energy, to make Light energy. Demons need Light, to make Dark. They transform the energy that they take in and produce the energy true to their nature, which they then use as fuel and a source for their power. Angels and demons are a bit co–dependent like that, but they need more energy than they can produce between them to survive.

The main sources of this Light and Dark energy aren't unlimited. As long as there are bad intentions, tainted souls, and horrid deeds being committed in the multiverse, Dark energy exists. As long as there are good intentions, not–so–tainted souls, and good deeds being committed in the multiverse, Light energy exists. But if all the multiverse's inhabitants spontaneously decided to be at peace with themselves, there would neither be good nor bad, Dark or Light, holy or unholy. Everything would just be ... harmonious, and there would be nothing for demons and angels to sustain themselves with.

So it's good thing for them that there is always, at one given place, somewhere between dimensions, a battle waged between right and wrong. It's impossible for the entire multiverse, as vast as it is, to be at peace simultaneously.

So angels and demons keep on keeping on.

–––

He lets John take care of him, because John likes to feel useful.

He doesn't ever need to be patched up; he can heal himself quite efficiently using the right ancient, ages–old methods. It's just a body anyway; mortal wounds to an immortal being aren't going to harm him in the slightest. But he wants John to be happy, and taking care of Sherlock makes him happy. Maybe it's not taking care of Sherlock _specifically_ that makes him happy and it's the routine of being a field doctor again that does it but honestly, that piece of the puzzle is irrelevant.

When John tends to Sherlock's injuries, he frowns slightly, sometimes biting his lip, as he concentrates. He's so focussed on the task at hand that a bomb could go off a street away and he wouldn't even flinch. His hands are always steady, firm, gentle. Caring.

And yeah okay, Sherlock likes watching John in doctor mode so his motives aren't _completely_ altruistic.

He also likes it when John forces food upon him, insisting he'll collapse soon. He's like an immovable force when it comes to Sherlock's health. No matter how much Sherlock argues that he's fine – and he really actually is – John will just stand there, square his shoulders, cross his arms and glare down at him until Sherlock acquiesces. It's charming. He looks like an angry hedgehog. It's become a game for Sherlock lately – how long will it take for John to crack? Will he just stand there forever, not moving a muscle, staring prickly little quills down at Sherlock until he takes a few mouthfuls? _Is_ there even a cracking point for the good doctor?

Sherlock always lets him win, eventually. He'll sigh and roll his eyes and carry on, but he lets him win.

He likes the little satisfied sound John makes afterwards, the one that says he's proud of being practically the only one able to convince the great detective to eat. Sherlock adores that sound.

He doesn't know why though.

He's a demon, for Satan's sake – he shouldn't _adore_ anything. But he does.

He loves it.

–––

Watching John has quickly become a pastime of his.

He doesn't actually have to be _looking_ in the human sense of the word to see John, being a demon and all. He just needs to be in his proximity. Sherlock could be lying on the couch staring at the ceiling, for example, and still be able to see John reading in his chair. It's handy because if Sherlock stares at him outright, John starts fidgeting and _behaving_ instead of just _being_ , and he likes watching John be, not behave.

John eating, reading, sleeping, making tea, doctoring, drinking tea, soldiering, scorning at the telly, walking, running, talking, smiling, laughing.

John watching Sherlock watch him.

It's probably unhealthy, how much he enjoys it. Since when has he been perfectly content to just sit and think about one person anyway? His brain is _always_ nagging him to find the next puzzle, do it and do it now, hurry, before it's too late, before the damage is irreversible, _do it now, come on right now hurry up!_

But that was before John.

It's confounding, how much John – a simple fleeting human being – can change a demon millennia old.

–––

It all starts with the time John finds something he was never meant to find.

Sherlock's on his own laptop for once, because John's checking his emails and editing his blog somewhat. Sherlock's typing away furiously, probably harassing some poor bugger on his website, killing some twelve–year–old's filmmaking dreams on Youtube or hacking the Government's databases. John's frowning at his screen slightly as he reads, making little humming noises that Sherlock is, of course, completely indifferent to.

Not.

In other news, they're both almost literally bored out of their minds. Sherlock's not at a the–wall–seriously–has–it–coming level of boredom yet, but it's a near thing. John's internally screaming his frustration.

There hasn't been a good case in a while.

The sound of click–clacking keys and the odd hum fill the flat, as they have been for the past hour. A few more emails, and then John decides he's had enough of doing nothing. Time to call it a night and hope tomorrow brings them a nice juicy serial killer case.

He pauses briefly to think how terrible it is that he's hoping for that to happen, and decides to blame it on Sherlock. He's a terrible influence when it comes to what's appropriate.

It's probably saying something that John _allows_ himself to be influenced though.

He shuts the lid of his laptop and stretches, yawning and groaning. Sherlock shifts in his chair and resolutely does not feel affected by John's actions at all.

"Well, I'm going to turn in. 'Night Sherlock," John says, honestly not expecting an answer.

He gets one anyway: "Goodnight, John."

Sherlock gets a smile for his troubles, making something in his chest warm at the sight. At this rate he'll be spontaneously bursting into song and skipping along the street, telling the world to rejoice in its existence and peace and goodwill to everyone by the time the week's out.

It's positively disgusting.

John walks away with that devilforsaken smile on his face, but he doesn't make it far.

"Uh, Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock's mostly focused on his laptop now.

"Where did this come from? It's lovely," John asks bemusedly, picking it up off the floor.

Sherlock glances up only to freeze. His muscles tense and his jaw clenches as he sees what John's holding up. If he were human, he'd be turning purple from the lack of oxygen reaching his lungs. But he's not, so he flushes even paler than his usual alabaster white.

_How– No … that's not possible!_

The thing with demons is, some have wings, and others don't. No one's ever figured out why some do and some don't, why some of the Fallen retain them and others do not – it's just how it works and always has worked. Sherlock thinks he's fortunate enough to be a winged demon. His wings are absolutely huge, much larger than the regular winged demons. In fact, they could probably make fair competition against those of the Lord of Darkness himself. Mycroft's always been resentful of them – his own pitifully resembling those of a feeble pigeon, at best.

Sherlock's span thirteen metres, each wing being six point five metres in length. Their shape closely resembles that of an eagle's, but the resemblance to any kind of creature of the earth stops there. At first glance, they're just a glossy black and probably look quite plain. Look longer and look closer at the outstretched monstrosities, and they're something else – an absolutely _devastating_ something else. The rows of coverts are the strongest and darkest of blacks, so dark that they would be shadows if they did not gleam as if they possessed a dark essence of their own (which they did anyway). The shade lightens to the sharpest silver of swords as the feathers layer on downwards, interspersed with variations of black and grey. The primaries, however, are that same dark black, outlined with edgy, subtle, ragged patterns of the darkest wine and the deepest emerald. The softer secondaries are composed of dark greys and blacks like ghosts and shadows mingling.

His wings are so intimidating they often appear to have an entirely separate presence of their own. In short, Sherlock's _quite_ proud of them.

The wings of a demon – indeed that of any celestial or infernal being – are complex in their nature. First and foremost, they don't always exist in the same dimension as that which can be seen. Supposedly the only way they can be visible to any other creature is if the bearer of the wings wills them to be so. But it's tricky, how they work. Even if the wings are in that _other_ dimension (which is probably best described as a singular vacuum of space the wing–bearer creates for themselves) and do not appear to exist, they are still technically a part of the winged being. They don't retract or disconnect completely; there's still a telepathic sort of link to them. They're immaterial when they're invisible, but once they come into being… oh, they are _glorious_.

_Flying_ is glorious.

But back to the here and now, the crux of the issue is John's found something he was never meant to find, that he was never meant to be _able_ to find.

Because wings, and therefore the feathers, even when they aren't attached to the being (such as when they're moulting) shouldn't be visible unless the bearer _wants_ them to be. And Sherlock didn't will anything into existence, so any feathers that fell off shouldn't be visible. To anyone. Least of all a mundane _human_.

And yet here John is, holding up what is clearly one of Sherlock's six–and–a–half–inch primaries, twirling it around in his fingers and playing with it like it's nothing more than an ordinary feather.

But it isn't, and it must still be 'linked' to Sherlock, because what else would explain the hot, electric tingle that shoots down his spine at the sight of John touching and fingering the blasted thing?

Sherlock shivers, eyes flooding entirely black – even over the whites – as he loses control of himself for a split second and then back to his regular remotely–human looking pale grey–hazel–blue ones.

Wait – if John can see a feather, does this mean he can see Sherlock's wings as well?

No, no of course not. He would have said something if that was the case. Freaked out, fainted, screamed … take your pick.

John looks up from the feather and frowns at Sherlock's lack of answer, as Sherlock is clearly aware of what John's doing and what he's just said.

Sherlock can't tell him the truth. The last and only time he told someone, back in the 1700's, the bastard had tried to exorcise him. Well, after running like the Devil himself was after him and screaming bloody murder. Which was rude, because Sherlock hadn't murdered anyone.

Not yet anyway.

Well he couldn't exactly have someone knowing his secret and spreading conspiracies and dropping hints wherever they went! Humans were much more open to the existence of the 'supernatural' back then. It had to be done. Even the smallest spark can be blown into a flame, and with the right fuel any flame can quickly blaze out of control.

Besides, the man had barely qualified as a friend anyway. More of a close colleague, really.

Anyway. Right now, he has to think of something else to say.

Only a couple of seconds has passed before Sherlock says, "It was for an experiment, obviously."

John rolls his eyes, and Sherlock hopes he doesn't press the issue, as per usual when it comes to his experiments. Usually, he's at peace in his ignorance.

Sadly, tonight is not such a time.

"What kind of experiment did you need _feathers_ for? Where do you get feathers like this to experiment on anyway? I've never seen anything like this," John wonders.

"The internet is a marvellous resource, John. You can find almost anything online if you know where to look. I was testing the rate at which feathers disintegrate when exposed to certain elements," Sherlock says smoothly, but on the inside he feels so very fidgety and agitated.

He turns back to his laptop and fancies himself blushing, even though demons can control such impulses.

"Why would you want to – Never mind," John mutters, staring at the beautiful thing in his hands.

John knows better by now than to question the motive behind experiments conducted by a bored 'high–functioning sociopath'. Besides, this one isn't gross or foul–smelling or a safety hazard, so there's no harm, he reasons. It's just feathers.

"Do you need this one?" John asks, jolting Sherlock out of his thoughts again.

Sherlock studies John carefully, eyebrows drawing together in consternation, "No."

"Can I keep it then? You were going to throw it out anyway, right? It would be such a waste – it really is beautiful," John asks, completely innocent.

Oh.

First John picks up a feather he's not meant to be able to see, and now he wants to _keep_ _it_?

Sherlock could just say no, but as ridiculous as it sounds, he knows that John will be confused, maybe suspicious, and a bit hurt. And yet voluntarily handing a feather from his wings to a mortal is a serious deal. Willingly given, if a feather is kept on their person at most times, as a talisman of sorts, it binds a person to the demon or angel it came from. It needs time to attune itself to the person before it can be of any good, though. It can act as a good luck charm, or a summoning device by snapping it in two. Not to mention it creates a direct link – the possessor of the feather becomes a direct conduit to the immortal, so hurting the person with the feather hurts the immortal. It makes the demon or angel vulnerable, but the human is protected to a certain extent because the feather itself is its own source of power.

He could let him have it, couldn't he? What were the chances of John treating it as a talisman and thus initiating a link anyway? Well, he already knows the answer to that: 1 in a 1000. He likes those odds. Besides, he would have no plausible reason for outright refusing to grant such a seemingly meaningless request.

And he likes John. Even if John does inexplicably carry it around with him for extended periods of time – which he won't – Sherlock wouldn't really mind all that much. Because it's John, not some dull waste of space.

It's just – he's never done this before. Ever.

He weighs it in his mind, pros against cons. All but a second has passed by the time he decides.

"Certainly," Sherlock says, flashing him a tight smile.

John grins and takes the feather with him to his room. He sleeps contentedly.

Sherlock puzzles away at why John could see the feather, well into the wee hours of morning. He thinks through all the facts, tests hypotheses, even researches a bit (humans have picked up on some truths about the existence of demons over the years, after all).

He doesn't end up finding an answer.

–––

Sherlock doesn't like Sarah.

Well for one, he's never really liked women in general. They're fine when they're not talking, but most of the time they're horribly dull, and squeaky when they get scared or excited, and they irritate the _hell_ out of him. Mrs Hudson is pretty much the only member of the female party that he actually likes, but in more of a motherly kind of way.

Mrs Hudson is nice.

Sarah is not nice, no matter what John says.

Sherlock _does not like Sarah_.

Sarah drives Sherlock to distraction, and not in a pleasing way like John is wont to do, but in a completely _go away go away stop talking LEAVE_ kind of way.

He has no idea what John sees in her, or why he chooses to spend time with her over Sherlock.

Sherlock is obviously much more interesting company.

Then again, he did mention something about 'getting off' with her. Sherlock doesn't really indulge in that behaviour anymore, and maybe John senses that. He is practically an animal of base need – he would be able to know, and besides, Sherlock hardly ever shows any signs of being outwardly sexual.

John probably thinks he's asexual.

Hah!

Him, asexual? Oh, the _hilarity_ of it! They hadn't been labelling him _asexual_ back in Italy a couple hundred years' ago, or Paris before that.

Not in the _least_.

_Oh John, if only you knew,_ Sherlock smirks smugly to himself.

–––

When Moriarty turns up, Sherlock almost believes he's an old friend of his who's come out to play.

Not human, in other words.

On closer inspection, though, Moriarty is indeed human. Although, he's not _quite_ as human as they come.

He has demon blood in him. _That_ much is obvious.

Some bumbling idiot – most likely a lesser demon – must have given it to him when he was a child, just for kicks. Well why else would a sinful, powerful creature grant a lesser being something so valuable? To most demons, human is synonymous to cattle or sheep.

No, on second thought – cattle and sheep can have their uses. Perhaps rat is a more apt comparison.

In addition, it seems that this demonic part of him has become the more potent over the years, which could prove to be troublesome.

The demon blood makes him just as intelligent as a demon and more resilient to physical injury than the average human. It also grants him some, shall we say, _abilities_ , albeit to a lesser extent. Sherlock himself rarely uses such abilities to their full potential, but completely out of choice because their novelty wore off long ago. Not to mention the less demon he acts, the easier it is to blend in.

Moriarty's evidently unstable. The demon blood in him makes the sinful emotions he feels white hot, flaring up one minute and extinguishing the next. Any emotions that originate from his soul, his own Light – happiness, compassion, grief, just to name a few – he _might_ feel. Sparingly. Rarely. Nowhere near often enough, but he _does_ feel them. This means Moriarty doesn't feel in the same way a human does, but neither does he feel in quite the same way a demon does. He's caught at the crossroads, the demon and the human fighting a war inside of him, tearing his psyche and whatever's left of his Light into shreds. The demon side is winning out of course, probably already has and at this stage, even though Moriarty is yet to introduce himself, Sherlock can tell that he either doesn't know it or doesn't care.

The demon in him allows him to manipulate people better than any other regular human, using their weaknesses against them in the most effective way possible. He can appear to others however he wants to – menacing, friendly, inconspicuous. Others would have labelled him a psychopath long ago, but that's not quite true. No human diagnosis can explain what Moriarty really is.

His demon blood makes him both stronger and weaker than Sherlock. He still has those fickle little human vulnerabilities, and was obviously seriously hurt long ago which aided in his transformation from human–demon to demon–human. He could, with a ritual, become full–blooded demon and thus much more of a threat to Sherlock and this little life he's created, but right now as he is, Sherlock can use the human faults in him to bend him to his will. Oh, what Sherlock could do with this little as of yet faceless little boy… There's plenty of time for that, though.

For now, Sherlock will play the game.

But when the time comes, he has to be careful about how he goes about breaking Moriarty. In being part human, Moriarty functions on a different wavelength to Sherlock, which means he's capable of doing things Sherlock might overlook, and lashing out unpredictably. Humans rarely function logically when it comes to the stronger, more passionate emotions, and this volatility makes him stronger.

And yet Sherlock would be lying if he says he's not enjoying this.

He can tell John doesn't approve, but seriously, he hasn't had this much fun in a _long_ time.

–––

"Sherlock. Seriously."

"John –"

"No, I don't want to hear it. Bloody hell Sherlock, you've been awake for _four days straight_. You need to sleep!"

"Not tired. And I've missed something, I just _know_ it, there's something –"

"Shut the fuck up, alright. I mean it, Sherlock. I don't care if it's an hour–long power nap, you _need_ to sleep. Not to mention eat something. Jesus, when was the last time you ate?"

"Tuesday. Not hungry, not tired. I'm almost there and your constant yapping and hovering is not helping, John. Go, leave me to my deductions."

"Tuesday – for God's sake! That was five days ago! Are you trying to kill yourself in the slowest and most _infuriating_ way possible?"

"I'm not dignifying that with a proper answer."

"Sherlock, so help me I will tie you down and _force feed_ you. Then I will sedate you so you'll sleep. Don't think I won't. And I'm _not_ joking."

"Oh, dull."

" _Sher_ –"

"I _know_ what I'm doing, John. I'm fine."

"I don't believe you."

"Your problem, not mine so _shut up_."

–––

When John wakes up, he groans in vexation and rolls over to silence his alarm clock with his fist. He has to go to work and he _really_ doesn't want to. It's too early, he's tired, and Sherlock's on another bloody case with barely a pause after the last one.

He hasn't slept in God knows how long – same goes for eating and actually taking care of himself, the absolute _idiot_.

John's been at Sarah's quite a lot recently, too, because he's just about ready to throttle the blasted man and doesn't quite know if he'll stop there.

Sherlock's worse than ever and John doesn't know _why_ , because usually when he's on a case Sherlock doesn't _let_ John take care of him, but he also doesn't brush him off as much as he has been of late.

It's like John's word counts for less than it once did – like _he_ counts for less.

And yes, John's aware that sounds maudlin and pathetic but he doesn't care. He's a bit hurt, not to mention confused. He covers up those feelings, though. He only lets his anger and frustration show.

John's quite certain, as arrogant as it sounds, that he's Sherlock's only real friend. When he calls anyone else an idiot, it's with contempt, but when he calls John an idiot it's almost an endearment. On a case, he would boast to the Yard, but he _explains_ things to John. Sherlock never really listens to anyone, but sometimes John can get him to.

But that all seems to be in the past, with how Sherlock's been acting lately.

So what happened? Did he get demoted or some bullshit like that?

But more than all of that, prickling and horrible, is the worry and fear. To put it mildly, John's scared out of his damn mind.

Because Sherlock's not eating, or sleeping, but he still goes around the city catching serial killers and exposing smuggling rings and hunting terrorists too probably, and what if he gets in too deep and can't handle it in his condition? What if something goes wrong, and John's not there to help – seeing as he's been going off on his own more and more often? What if the state he's running himself into ends up being the reason he gets himself hurt, or worse?

John's fretting and scared shitless, but he refuses to let it show.

Well he tries his damnedest, anyway.

He makes his plodding way downstairs in his dressing gown, yawning and stretching. He half expects to find Sherlock lying face down in front of his crime wall, not breathing.

Lucky break – Sherlock's in his makeshift study, rifling through newspaper clippings.

"Sherlock?" John calls.

"Mm," is Sherlock's only response as he continues to scan and sort the clippings he's practically swimming in.

John lingers, shuffling his feet, then sighs and decides it's too damn early to start another row. He decides to shower, make himself tea and toast and by then he'll be awake enough to head off to work.

Before he leaves the flat, he places an extra cup of tea and slice of toast next to one of Sherlock's piles of newspapers.

Just in case.

–––

Sherlock hasn't been ignoring John, but even he has a limit to what level of danger he is willing to expose John to. This Moriarty person is definitely not within a reasonable level of danger.

So yes, he's been leaving John out of these past few cases, keeping him away the only way he knows how.

He's determined to keep John safe, whatever the cost.

He doesn't really understand why John insists on taking care of Sherlock even now, with the way he's been acting, but he does eat the toast and drink the tea John left him that morning.

–––

Sherlock almost loses his wits about himself at the pool.

Moriarty has John, and that is _so_ not playing by the rules. John is _his_. No one can have him but Sherlock, _no one_.

Just the sight of John wrapped in enough Semtex to take out the entire building has Sherlock seeing more red than when he was in Hell.

He's almost had enough of this Jim Moriarty.

Almost. He _is_ the best adversary that's come along in a long while, after all. He recognizes Sherlock's talent, and he wants to play. He has an intellect on par with Sherlock's own. And Sherlock can't just disregard all of that.

But still. Taking John? That's just low.

Which is exactly what Sherlock expected of Moriarty, actually. He expected Moriarty to hit below the belt and play on Sherlock's weaknesses, and that's exactly what he did.

And what – or rather _who_ – is Sherlock's only weakness?

Doctor John Hamish Watson, of course.

Sherlock should have seen this coming from the start, damn it. He should have kept John closer, kept him within his sight.

He doesn't want John to get hurt. That seems to be the most salient thought he has as he and Moriarty have their unorthodox little chat. Sherlock needs to get John out in one piece, but he's not sure if Moriarty quite knows his heritage yet. If he doesn't and Sherlock uses his demon powers, they might spark something in that brain of Moriarty's. It's been known to happen before – demon powers give off energy just as it needs energy to activate, and it might trigger something. Even if it _doesn't_ trigger anything, Moriarty is smart, _really_ smart. He'll research, and he knows the tricks of the trade.

When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

He knows that there isn't necessarily any evidence to refute the possibility of demons, nor is there any to prove their existence.

But the sulphur? A vanishing act of two? Residual, tangible darkness lingering in the air? That might be just enough evidence to tip the scale.

Moriarty will find out about Sherlock, and then he might join the dots and _maybe_ suspect something about himself. He might find legends and folk tales about people–cross–demons, and wonder if that's why his powers of manipulation and intelligence have always come so easily, without any real effort or education, why he seems more resilient in a physical sense.

After all, there's always some truth to every story.

If Moriarty doesn't know about the demon in him, Sherlock wants to tuck that little advantage away for later. He's fairly certain Moriarty doesn't know about Sherlock's true nature – yet, anyway – and Sherlock wants to keep it that way. Not to mention the metaphorical flare he'd be putting up to any other demons inhabiting the area if he uses his Darkness after such a long time. It would be akin to a fully–materialised ghost streaking across the stage at the BAFTA's.

So he stands his ground and waits it out, gathering information on Moriarty, trying to gauge whether or not he knows about himself.

He decides that using his powers will be his very last resort.

But then John jumps the hell–child, the spider, and cries, " _Run!_ " and it's all Sherlock can do to stay right there, don't do anything yet, don't reveal anything, _get a hold of yourself_. His muscles flex and tense seemingly, impossibly tighter. He feels wound up like a raring cobra, like a threatened, crouching, snarling panther.

Seriously, _what the hell_ _is John thinking?!_

Moriarty cries, " _Ooops!_ " and the sniper's red laser spot jumps to Sherlock's forehead. Well then. If he had a genuine human heart and not just the illusion of one, it would be racing and pounding in his ears right now. He _almost_ prays to a God he doesn't believe in that John doesn't do anything stupid.

_Last resort_ , he tells himself whilst John backs away with his hands up in a gesture of truce, _absolute last resort_.

Stupid, wonderful, idiotic John.

Sherlock is just a little amused at the threats Moriarty throws at his face, but he's mostly keeping an eye on John. Moriarty's threats are awfully silly, though. He can't kill Sherlock; he doesn't know how. And burning his heart out? Come on. Talk about cliché.

_I don't have one in any sense of the word, so good luck with that one Jim_ , he thinks, even as his eyes flicker to John faster than human eyes can see.

Moriarty's eyes sharpen with cold malice and blazing fury, betraying the calm façade he holds.

"Such a lonely, lost little thing," Moriarty muses, his tone lilting and words varying in cadence as he smiles a Cheshire smile.

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at that, "Are you talking about me or you?"

Something in the criminal's demeanour changes dramatically, like one wrong move could set him off and Sherlock's grip on the gun tightens reflexively. One bullet directly to the heart is all it would take. But then it's gone just as quickly as it arrived and Moriarty's saying how nice it was to have a proper chat, and then he's _gone_ like smoke dissipating in a breeze.

Sherlock's in front of John and has his hands on the jacket in an instant. God knows he can't get the thing off fast enough. His hands are trembling – why are they trembling? He doesn't know what he's saying to John but he can hear the sound of his own voice, and he's fairly sure he hasn't sounded anything remotely like that since perdition.

That in itself is something to worry about.

"Sherlock. Sherlock! I'm fine," John gasps, sounding not fine at all.

Sherlock has no name for this metallic, sharp, feeling he has – that he realizes he's had since seeing John walk in wearing that blasted jacket. He ignores it in favour of searching for Moriarty, as soon as he gets the jacket off John. Soon enough though, it becomes quite clear that he's left the building without a trace. Sherlock doesn't know how but he can't see him. Anywhere. Maybe Moriarty does know about his powers then? Inconclusive, need more data.

Sherlock could enhance his vision using his powers, but once again, that would be more trouble than it's worth. There's more than a fair chance Moriarty will turn up again soon enough anyhow. Something about his departure feels a little too much like an unfinished melody, and Sherlock's sure he's not the only one who can't stand such a thing.

Something inside him – Sherlock can't for the life of him fathom what – feels broken. Like there's a dam that's crumbling to pieces and John's floating away downstream, away from life and moonlit chases and Sherlock, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. This makes no sense though, because John is here in front of him, trying to catch his breath, leaning against a pillar, whole and not fine and _alive_.

He thanks John for what he offered to do. Not in so many words, but John's fluent in Sherlock Holmes by now. He understands. He understands a scary variety of things about Sherlock, for a mortal who doesn't know the truth about him.

Just then, they both become very aware of multiple red dots dancing over both their torsos.

Just then, Moriarty comes back proclaiming how he's so changeable.

Just then, Sherlock knows he has to shoot that bomb, and he has to use his powers.

He waits for another opportunity to present itself, searching for one desperately, but no such thing occurs.

_Ready._

Moriarty just stands there, smiling and off–kilter, it's like he knows what Sherlock's going to do even if Sherlock doesn't yet know it himself.

_Aim._

There isn't another choice. _There isn't another choice._

_Fire._

A scarce few seconds after he fires, the bomb explodes.

But not before Sherlock and John blink out of existence.

–––

As they reappear in an alleyway a couple of hundred yards away from Baker Street, Sherlock knows he's screwed – in more ways than one.

He can take consolation in knowing that the bomb would have effectively erased most of the sulphur, including its repulsive scent. In the fairly likely event that Moriarty escaped as well, the explosion had been a great cover for his little teleportation trick, too, as Sherlock had waited until the absolute last fraction of a second he could before beaming them away. The residual dark energy left at the pool – and indeed in this alleyway – would take a while to disperse, but there's nothing to be done about that. The damage has already been done; he's put up the flare. But better the crime scene and a random alleyway, instead of their residence.

He's left a trail, though. Other demons might come out to 'have some fun' with Sherlock, and if Moriarty escaped, he might come back more dangerous than ever.

John's still in danger.

Not in immediate danger of course, but yes, he's still in danger. _Damn it_.

Oh, and the other reason he's screwed? Well naturally he has to explain this disappearing and reappearing act to John.

Speaking of, John has lost the support against his back and is currently sitting on his bum and blinking owlishly up at Sherlock like he thinks what just happened _can't_ be what _actually_ just happened, and that they both must be dead and if this is the afterlife he's feeling rather disappointed because it sucks.

Sherlock sighs. He refuses to let himself speculate on how John will react, but he knows this won't be fun.

"John," he starts, his tone calm and measured to the point of patronizing, "We aren't dead."

John stares at him for a moment. He shivers as a chill settles – the result of the dark energy swirling around them draining the area of heat.

Then John asks, apropos of nothing, "How can you read my mind? I don't think I've ever outright asked you before."

Sherlock stares back at him in utter bewilderment, mouth parted slightly. He's just moved them both from one space to another using a type of energy that has properties John – hell, _any_ human – will never be able to fully comprehend, never mind has actually _heard_ of before, and instead of demanding how that's possible like any other normal human being would do, John's first sodding question of enquiry is _"How can you read my mind?"_

As he helps John to his feet, Sherlock decides then and there that he has to keep John. Forever, if he lets him.

He'll keep John with him, and he'll keep him safe at the same time.

Sherlock will have to work twice as hard to keep John safe now, that much is true. He knows letting John go would probably be the best for his safety, but Sherlock's too selfish to do that. No, he has to keep John.

Whatever it takes to make him stay, and to keep him alive too, he'll do it.

–––

They're walking back to Baker Street, mutually agreeing without actually saying so that they need to work off the adrenaline still pumping through their veins. Yes, in fact demons _do_ get adrenaline rushes just the same as humans. Angels don't; they're too calm and at peace with all that Light in their souls to get excited that way.

"I can't read your mind," Sherlock says abruptly after a heavy silence, "I make inferences from your expression, your mood, your body language, and any preconceived impressions I have about you and your reactions to certain stimuli and make an educated guess. I'm just right much more often than I'm wrong."

John smirks, a little self–deprecatingly, at the ground, "You saying I'm predictable?"

Sherlock gives him a quick sidelong glance, and shakes his head twice minutely, hard. With evident frustration in his tone he hisses, "Not in the _least_."

John whips his head up in surprise, but Sherlock's staring straight ahead with an impassive, closed–off look on his face and reluctantly, John lets it drop.

By the time they arrive back at their flat, it's almost half one in the morning and yet they're still as awake as two shadows in the dead of a moonlit night.

John heads in first, and Sherlock shuts the door behind them, locking it for once. He doesn't dwell on why he feels the need to, just like he doesn't dwell on the fact that a simple _lock_ is hardly going to stop anything that's coming their way. Not tonight, naturally, but soon.

Once they're in the living room, John about faces and stares down at Sherlock. Or, it _feels_ like John is staring him down, because John is a head shorter than him and really, _really_ shouldn't be able to do such a thing.

Sherlock leans against the doorframe and tries to feign nonchalance, and to return his gaze in equal measure, but John's is so solid and unforgiving and relentless that Sherlock can't do it. He just can't. He breaks eye contact and stares at the empty fireplace, which seems much more placating than the man before him.

"Well? Care to explain to me what happened back there?" John's stare narrows further, accusingly.

"Not really, no," Sherlock says petulantly, glaring hard at the fireplace as if it's to blame for this mess.

John takes a step closer and Sherlock makes the mistake of meeting his gaze again. Suddenly he feels very much trapped, which is so ridiculous that he almost laughs aloud, hysterically.

Outwardly, his face is as stoic as a rock.

"Sherlock, seriously, I am _not_ getting this. I – I have no idea how we escaped, unscathed, from a bloody _bomb_ that exploded not ten feet away from us. If we're not dead then what –" John falters.

Sherlock doesn't move a muscle, just watches John shuffle uncomfortably.

"It just doesn't make any sense," John finishes quietly.

There's an infinite pause, and the world could end outside Baker Street and neither of them would notice because right now? They're the only two people that exist. Well, 'people' is probably the wrong word, but the statement still stands. John doesn't know what's coming, but even he seems to sense that they're both standing at the edge of a cliff, a precipice, about to fall down down down into the rabbit hole and neither knows what actually awaits them when they land.

John watches as Sherlock's mask falls away, and he blinks, confounded by what he sees.

"You wouldn't believe me, if I told you the truth," Sherlock replies in nothing more than a murmur, as if speaking any louder would shatter something vital, damage it beyond repair.

John cocks his head to the side and says, just as softly, "Try me."

"No. I said you wouldn't believe me if I told you, but if I show you first, you might."

Something in Sherlock hurts – something in the cavity of his chest, where his heart would be if he had one. But there's no such organ in him – only the illusion of one to put off medical professionals if the situation arises – so this pain doesn't make sense. It's just like that nonsensical dam-breaking feeling back at the pool. It isn't physical, and demons are hardly sentimental creatures so this can't be psychological or emotional either.

A lot of things that don't make sense have happened, lately, and they all have to do with one, singular impossible man.

Like the fact that Sherlock could lie, but he just doesn't want to anymore. Not to John.

John just looks at him curiously, innocently. Somehow the thought of that gentle–strong face looking at him with fear and disgust and horror makes the area where Sherlock's stomach would be twist and tighten painfully.

_Again_ with the inexplicable pain.

His eyes shutter closed briefly as he holds out his wrist.

He says, "Check my pulse."

Sherlock can feel the confusion emanating from his friend like a tangible presence. Sensing the solemnity in Sherlock's piercing gaze though, John steps forward and does what he's told. Sherlock watches John as he reaches out and feels for a pulse. When he can't find one, he frowns slightly and checks his other wrist, then at his neck. His eyes grow wide as he finally presses a hand to Sherlock's chest and …

… feels nothing.

No rise and fall of breathing, or a heartbeat. He leaves his hand there for long minutes, and still he feel nothing – except a stupidly expensive shirt stretched over pale, pale skin as smooth and as lifeless as marble.

John slowly retracts his hand. Sherlock notes that his left is perfectly steady, as is his gaze. The only betrayal of the calm he doesn't feel is the fact that practically all the blood has drained from his face, and that he's still holding onto Sherlock's wrist but has now tightened his hold into a death grip.

"You – you don't have one. You don't have a pulse, or a heartbeat, and yet you're conscious," John stares at Sherlock.

Sherlock nods once.

"You. _How_ is that even – I don't understand. Are you dead? A hallucination or ghost or something? Or am I lying in some hospital bed in a coma and just imagining all of this after all?" John's voice cracks slightly at the end, and he coughs to cover it up.

Sherlock's gaze flickers over John's face as he murmurs, "Death implies a prior life. If death for you means that a heart that once functioned has stopped doing so, then I'm not dead because I never had one to begin with."

John drops Sherlock's wrist as if he's been scalded, and Sherlock does not, he _does not_ , feel a horrible, overwhelming urge to grab his hand back.

"What are you saying? That you've never been _alive_ in the first place?"

"If life means having a heart, no."

"But that doesn't make any sense! How can you live without a heart? I mean, you can live without a metaphorical one, but not _literally_ for God's sake. And besides, I've checked your pulse before, Sherlock, and it was fine. Perfectly healthy in fact. And I'm sure that _someone_ over the years would have bloody noticed you not having something as important as a heart!" John's babbling and he knows it but he doesn't care. His eyes are alight with uncharacteristic panic and blatant denial.

"Ah, yes. Defence mechanism. I can hardly live among humans and run the risk of any of them finding out I have no pulse or heart. It's just an illusion – I can turn it on and off as I please," Sherlock smiles slightly.

John takes a step back and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to control his breathing.

"I can't believe this. I don't. I'm dreaming. I must be. Holy fucking hell," his voice, though low, verges on panic–stricken as he continues to stream obscenities and tells himself to _wake up already_ under his breath.

Sherlock's whole being is still tense – he's _never_ been this tense before, not even when John discovered that feather of his. He still has no idea how John will ultimately react. Even as John stands in front of him, even as Sherlock takes in all the data available, he _doesn't know_ and it – frightens him. Like nothing before. Not even Hell.

Maybe, though, if he looked at himself more closely – he would know why he's doing this. It's just that for once, he wants someone to know and accept what he really is. Maybe, if he looked into the heart he doesn't have, he would see that he's telling John all of this at the risk of losing him because he really is just a lonely lost little thing.

John attempts to get a grip on himself. He rubs his face with both hands and drops them. He exhales, loud and deliberate.

"Right. Okay. Say that I believed you for a second. What exactly would this …? Hang on. You said 'among humans'. Implying that you're … not. You're not human," John says slowly, not quite able to grasp _any_ of this yet.

"When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains however improbable must be true," Sherlock recites dutifully.

"But no, wait, that _is_ impossible. You being … not human," John pauses before echoing himself: "You're not human."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, losing some of his uncertainties as irritation takes over.

"Yes, thank you John, we've _established_ that."

John snorts at that, surprised. He looks less like a deer caught in the headlights now, as if realizing that Sherlock is and always has been just _Sherlock_ ; a recalcitrant, petulant man–child with zero patience, a crystalline intellect and an unflappable arrogance to match, no matter what he really is. Or whether he's lost his marbles. _But he has no pulse…_

"Alright, you git. Give me a break, I'm still trying to wrap my head around the ridiculous idea that my best friend might not be human! For crying out loud," John shakes his head, grinning wryly despite everything. _This is crazy!_ John thinks.

John takes a deep breath before asking the million dollar question:

"So if you're not human, then what are you?"

Sherlock's eyes flicker and some of the irritation fades. John can't discern the emotion he sees in them, and he doesn't like it. Often, he can tell what Sherlock's expressions mean, what he's _feeling_ , as easily as recognizing letters of the alphabet so this is … unnerving.

It's probably saying something that not even Sherlock himself knows what he's feeling. He didn't feel _anything_ like this that first time around, a few of centuries back.

"Demon," he says, quickly, like ripping off a bandaid.

John blinks at him.

"Sorry. What? You're a _what_ now?"

"Demon, John, I'm a demon. How many times must I say it?"

Sherlock doesn't like this, he doesn't, he _hates_ the way John is looking at him.

"What, like a giant fork–bearing, horned, red and black, bat–winged, snake–tongued, eat–your–soul–alive demon?" John asks incredulously, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock glares at him, as harsh as the sun, "Don't be ridiculous."

John holds his hands up in half disbelief, half placation.

"Well I've never met a _demon_ before, so how the heck am I supposed to know anything?" John asks, somewhat indignantly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes hard enough to break something, as if it's John's fault that he's ignorant. He walks around John and flops onto his back on the sofa, assuming his Thinking Pose. He decides he's going to dump as many facts on John as he can in one go, and hopefully, it will shock him into reacting sooner rather than later.

Sherlock hates waiting – for _anything_.

"No, we don't have giant forks, most of us aren't coloured, nor do we have horns. Hardly any of us have bat wings, none have snake tongues, and we don't eat souls. We torture them in practically every way imaginable, certainly, but we don't _eat_ them – that's just superstition. And how we look in our true form is probably best left to the imagination, for now," Sherlock's mouth flickers into a brief smirk.

"You torture souls?" John's brow furrows.

Sherlock glances at him quickly, "Well, _I_ don't. But in a general sense, it's practically a demon's job and hobby to … make sure the souls of the damned know their place. I learned quite early, however, that I seem to take no enjoyment from it."

"Right. So demons exist and souls exist," John mutters something about learning something new every day.

Abruptly, John looks up at him curiously and Sherlock shifts uncomfortably at the look on John's face.

"Why don't you? Take enjoyment from it?" John asks.

Sherlock looks at him quizzically, "You _want_ me to torture souls for pleasure?"

"No, no! Of course not. What I'm trying to say is if it really is your job, aren't you, I don't know, breaking a code of conduct or something by choosing not to? Going against your nature and all that? Not that I'm complaining, in any way," John says emphatically.

Sherlock tilts his head in acknowledgement, "When you look at it that way, yes, I would imagine so. I've always been significantly _dissimilar_ from my brethren, but I've never dwelled on the fact. What is, is."

John points at him, "Wait so let me get this straight – not only are you a … demon, but you're also a demon _outcast_?"

Sherlock just looks at him in exasperation, "Well, yes, I suppose so but I fail to see how that's releva –"

John cuts him off by breaking into peals of laughter.

"God, that's just so typical. Absolutely unbelievable, this entire thing. Of _course_ being a regular old demon wouldn't be enough for you. Not when you're Sherlock bloody Holmes. You're ridiculous, you know that?" he grins at Sherlock through his laughter.

Sherlock gives up, well and truly _gives up_ on trying to suss out John Watson.

" _You're_ ridiculous," he retorts irritably, just because he can.

John's laughter cuts off as a thought occurs to him. "Hold on, what about Mycroft? Is he a demon too?"

John's practically bouncing on the balls his feet.

"No, he's an angel. Sanctimonious bastard," Sherlock says calmly.

John's grin widens, "Yes, naturally. Do I detect a hint of jealously in your tone there?"

Sherlock sniffs, "Hardly. Angels have to conform to all sorts of codes. I blaspheme like I breathe – unthinkingly and fairly often – so being an angel is not for me."

John chuckles, "Yeah, I'm well aware of your blasphemous nature." After he lets that sink in, he continues, "But you don't have a heart, and I'm assuming you don't have lungs … so why would you need to breathe?"

"I don't. Force of habit."

"Do you have any organs at all?"

"Not human ones."

"So you don't need to eat? Or drink?"

"Not necessarily, no. I can, and I am able to taste what I consume, but it's a waste of time because it does nothing for me. I only eat for the consistency."

"Of … faking human?"

"Exactly."

John, unfathomably, looks sheepish.

"So all this time I've been forcing you to eat…"

"I've only acquiesced occasionally out of necessity, yes," Sherlock's eyes narrow as John reddens and looks down.

Sherlock has no idea what's going on inside John's head to produce _that_ physical response. Embarrassment? Self–pity? But about what? Couldn't be romantic feelings. Could it? Why was he hoping it was?

Human emotions were _so_ confusing.

"What about sleep?" John asks warily.

"I need to recuperate, but not as often as humans do. Certainly not every night."

"Guess your body really is just transport then, huh?" John grumbles. He falls silent, thinking.

Sherlock wonders if he's miscalculated. John doesn't seem scared, or disgusted, or horrified in the slightest. He's just curious, and actually seems to be taking it all rather well. Rather readily too.

But Sherlock needs to know for certain.

"I'm surprised you're not running for the hills yet," Sherlock says lightly, but his head is heavy and his chest cavity aches.

John raises his eyebrows, "Should I be?"

"Probably."

"You've given me no reason to."

Sherlock looks at John thoughtfully. A weight seems to lift off his chest. He's not going to call this feeling hope. Nope, no way.

And okay, if he's being honest, he's absolutely delighted that John's being so rational about something Sherlock's sure feels completely _irrational_ to him.

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock's smiles smugly at the echoed words.

John deadpans, "What do people normally say?"

"They usually call me a monster and threaten to kill me," Sherlock says without inflection.

John goes quiet for a moment.

Then he says, "Have you killed anyone, Sherlock?"

Surprised at his insightfulness, Sherlock replies honestly without even thinking about it.

"Yes. Does that surprise you?"

"Not really."

Sherlock quirks a smile at the ceiling.

"Most of the time it was out of self–preservation."

"And the others?" John asks tentatively.

"You probably don't want to know. I am a demon, after all, John. I tested the waters a long time ago, but I never did take to them. It was just so… _dull_ killing or torturing people pointlessly."

John sighs exasperatedly. Of _course_ the fact that it was wrong didn't factor into it for Sherlock, but he lets it slide.

"How old are you, really?"

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, "As cliché as it sounds, almost as old as time itself."

John goggles, and lets out a low whistle.

"Well. It's no wonder you're bored all the time, you've existed for _ages_. Quite monotonous for someone like you, I'm guessing?"

"You have no idea," Sherlock says drily.

John hums, his eyes glinting with amusement. He wanders over to his armchair and falls into it, sighing in contentment and relaxing as the adrenaline fades by the minute. He's still alert though, hyped up on all the crazy things he's hearing, hyped up on the crazy fact that he _believes_ Sherlock.

"I take it the Spanish Inquisition is finished?" Sherlock says after a relatively comfortable pause.

John looks at him, "Actually, no. You still haven't told me how you – well I'm assuming it was you – saved us both from being blown to bits. You know. By a sodding _bomb_."

Now that he knows John's made of sterner stuff, that he doesn't think he's nuts and seems to believe him and actually wants to _stay_ despite that, Sherlock almost feels a glee at the opportunity he has to brag to John about his powers, to give him something else to be impressed by. It's a novel feeling.

"I have certain abilities, and one of them is the ability to – teleport, for lack of a better word."

John stares at him, eyes wide, "You're kidding."

Sherlock smiles slowly.

They talk well into the night – well, morning really. John asks questions while Sherlock explains everything about the pool, about how he did it, about Dark energy and demons and Fallen angels and Lucifer and _everything_. John asks questions and listens attentively as Sherlock gestures and paces and laughs at John's dry comments here and there. But mostly John watches and listens as Sherlock tells stories about his long, long life and the many things he's seen and done. John feels lighter than he has in weeks as he smiles and laughs with his best mate. Sherlock looks just about as happy as John feels.

Sherlock explains how he was an angel once, how he rebelled against following unjustified orders and how as punishment he doesn't remember a thing about Heaven. John frowns at that, obviously thinking the punishment doesn't fit the crime. Sherlock shrugs at his expression.

He _does_ remember that that was why he was cast out, and how far he fell (yes, Fallen angels have actually _fallen_ in the literal sense), and about how Lucifer talked him into following him down to the pits. He tells John about how horrible it was, and John doesn't say anything but he gets up and sits down beside Sherlock, takes his hand in both of his, and just listens. Because he gets it. He may not have been to the actual place, but Afghanistan was close enough to Hell for him.

Sherlock talks as he hasn't talked to anyone ever before, and marvels at how John knows exactly the right thing to do.

It occurs to John that he really _does_ believe everything Sherlock's saying. Not just because they're best friends, or because Sherlock's still acting like himself (aside from the animated, loquacious mood he's in that has nothing to with a case), or because the lack of eating and sleeping and morals seems to fit.

He believes him because there's no way that Sherlock can be looking at him right now like this, completely earnest and open and vulnerable, like he's just waiting to be rejected – like his life depends on it – and be lying through his teeth.

He's definitely not mentally stunted, either, so the idea that he may be spinning a made–up tale he genuinely believes is completely out of the question.

And no way in hell – excuse the pun – is Sherlock lying to him. Not looking like _that_.

John squeezes the hand he holds in his own gently. Sherlock squeezes back but doesn't give any other outward sign that he's noticed, and doesn't once break speech.

–––

When the sun finally breaks over the horizon, John blinks groggily at the sunlight streaming through into the living room, lighting up dust motes like little specks of glitter dancing through rays of yellow–gold. He yawns and stretches, extricating his hand from Sherlock's, who has been holding it since they started talking about Hell hours ago. Sherlock had shown no signs of wanting to let go, and John hadn't minded.

Now, though, John is tired. It'd been a long night; he's been on the biggest emotional rollercoaster of his life, and not to mention he's been up for almost twenty–four hours straight on top of that. Even Sherlock himself looks a bit worn out, and John blearily makes a mental note to ask him just how often a regular demon sleeps so he knows when to pester Sherlock into getting some proper rest. The conversation had petered out naturally, Sherlock deciding John might need a bit to process the truckload of new and undoubtedly abstract information that's just been dumped onto his human sleep–deprived brain. And if he's being honest, that teleportation spell had seriously worn him out too, after going so long without using his demon abilities.

Not to mention he feels a bit like he's been on an emotional rollercoaster as well (which doesn't make sense, _he knows_ , but he really couldn't care less right now).

John stands and groans as his legs protest. His eyes can't seem to stay open. He's just so tired.

Sherlock stretches out on the sofa, flexing his toes as he resigns himself to the demands of his body and closes his eyes.

After they mumble something to each other about sleeping for a week, John starts to make his way to his bedroom.

Before he gets to the bottom of the stairs, though, he turns and says, "God, I almost forgot, what with everything else but … do you think Moriarty might have survived?"

Sherlock opens his eyes lazily to assess him, "Probably."

John swears profusely under his breath, knowing that a 'probably' from Sherlock is pretty much a 'definitely' from anyone else.

"So I suppose we haven't seen the last of him then."

"No," Sherlock shuts his eyes and seems to drift off to sleep.

John sighs resignedly, supposing they'll deal with Moriarty when the time comes. He's just put his foot on the first stair when Sherlock calls to John.

"John, you might want to call Sarah," he says it as if he couldn't care less if John did or didn't.

John turns to blink at him confusedly, "What? Why?"

Sherlock stares at him and struggles to hide what he's sure is completely inappropriate cheerfulness that John's forgotten all about mundane little Sarah.

John continues to stare dazedly back as Sherlock silently assesses him with amusement and doesn't elaborate.

It dawns on John then, quite out of the blue, that the fact that he was supposed to drop by Sarah's last night has completely slipped his mind.

"Oh, shit," John groans, covering his face with one hand. How could he have forgotten?

Sherlock just watches smugly as John goes over to plug his dead phone into the charger and make the call. When Sarah picks up and says hello, John already looks guilty and apologetic. But as their conversation quickly regresses into a fight, Sherlock can see they're (finally) over.

Sherlock shouldn't feel happy, he really shouldn't. Not just because it's probably inappropriate, but because he's a demon.

And yet, it isn't his fault that John doesn't seem sad at all – more irritated and grumpy from lack of sleep, actually – as he says all the banal things people say to let someone down easy: _I think we should take a break; we should see other people for a while; we can still be friends if you'd like._


End file.
